INT. CAR - HIGHWAY - NIGHT
The city lights of Star City are a distant glow in the rearview mirror as Dick and Vinny drive back to Gotham. The car is a bubble of silence, the low hum of the engine the only sound. Dick's mind is a whirlwind of thoughts-Barbara, the failed mission, the new information about Evelyn's true ruthlessness.
Suddenly, Vinny's phone rings. He glances at the screen, a look of surprise on his face. It's Sam. He answers, his voice a low murmur, the conversation a series of short, clipped questions and answers.
Dick watches him, his body tense with a sense of unease. A change of plans. A new mission. A new danger.
Vinny hangs up the phone, his face a mask of grim determination. He turns to Dick, his eyes narrowed.
"What was that about?" Dick asks, his voice flat.
"A change of plans," Vinny says. "The museum. We're meeting up with Sam. Evelyn has a new assignment for us."
He glances at Dick, a wry smirk on his face. "Looks like you're not going to get that 'welcome home' party after all, Grayson.
INT. GOTHAM ART MUSEUM - NIGHT
The Gotham Art Museum is a fortress of marble and glass, a silent mausoleum for priceless art. The only light comes from the moon, casting long, stark shadows through the tall windows. An hour after receiving the call from Sam, Dick and Vinny arrive at the museum's service entrance.
Vinny looks at Dick, a wry smirk on his face. "Ladies first, Grayson."
"Funny," Dick mutters, the word a cold, cynical whisper. He pushes open the heavy metal door and steps inside, the sound echoing in the silent, cavernous space.
The moment he is through the door, the sound of a pistol being cocked breaks the silence. "Don't move, Dick," a cold voice says from the shadows.
"Shit," Dick whispers to himself, his mind racing. He turns, his body a coiled spring of tension. Vinny is standing just behind him, his gun now aimed at Dick's chest.
"Hi, Dick," Sam shouts from the top of the grand marble staircase, his voice a triumphant, mocking echo in the silent museum. He stands there, a dark, menacing figure, a ghost in the machine.
"Sam, what the hell is going on?" Dick shouts, his voice a low, furious growl. He keeps his hands where they are, his body a coiled spring, ready to spring into action.
"Going on?" Sam replies, a cold, triumphant smile on his face. He slowly makes his way down the stairs, his eyes fixed on Dick. "I'm just following orders, Dick. Evelyn's orders. She said to come to the museum and wait for you. She said to let you know that the game is over. That you lost."
"What game?" Dick retorts, his mind racing. He looks at Vinny, his body a mask of cold fury. "What are you talking about?"
"Oh, you know what I'm talking about," Sam says, his voice a low, venomous purr. He stops at the foot of the stairs, his eyes burning with an icy fire. "The game where you pretend to be a Talon, a soldier in our army, a king in our court. When in reality, you're a hero. A vigilante. A spy. You're Nightwing, Dick. And you're working for the Bats."
Dick's jaw tightens. He knows he's been exposed. He knows the game is over. He looks at Sam, then at Vinny, then at the men who are surrounding him, their guns aimed at his chest.
The museum is a silent, cavernous space, the tension in the air a palpable, living thing. Sam stands at the foot of the stairs, a cold, triumphant smile on his face. Dick stands motionless, his hands at his side, his body a coiled spring of fury and fear.
"Evelyn also knows about Frank, Dick," Sam says, his voice a low, venomous purr. "And Bell, too."
Dick's head snaps up, his eyes widening in surprise. "Bell? The girl you were sweet on?"
"You're the one who let her live," Sam says, his voice a low, dangerous growl. He cocks his pistol, the sharp, metallic click echoing in the silent museum. "I'm sorry about this, Dick, but our Court has rules. It's a shame, too. Evelyn really liked you. Guess we'll both have a good cry at your funeral."
Dick's eyes narrow, a flicker of cold resolve in their depths. "You think you're doing this because of your loyalty?" he says, his voice a low, challenging whisper. "You're not. You're just scared."
Sam's face twitches, a flash of genuine anger in his eyes. "Maybe," he says, his voice a low, menacing growl. "But you'd have lived a lot longer if you looked over your shoulder from time to time."He turns and walks up the stairs, his footsteps echoing in the silent museum. He stops at the top and looks down at Dick, his eyes a cold, hard gaze. "Goodbye," he says, his voice a low, triumphant whisper. "Don't make him suffer, boys. He's my buddy."
He disappears into the shadows, leaving Dick alone with Vinny and the other men, their guns aimed at his chest. The silence is deafening, the only sound the low hum of the air conditioning and the pounding of Dick's heart. He knows what's coming.
The echoes of Sam's voice fade into the silent, cold expanse of the museum. A member of the Court, a brute with a face hidden by a white owl mask, takes a step forward, his pistol raised and aimed at Dick's head. The others, Vinny included, form a semicircle, their guns a dozen cold, metallic eyes fixed on their target.
Just as the man's finger tightens on the trigger, Dick moves. With a speed that defies human perception, he grabs the man's arm, twisting it, forcing him forward, a human shield in a storm of lead. The other Court members, caught by surprise, fire anyway, the sound of the gunshots a deafening echo in the silent museum. Bullets tear through the man's body, a brutal, messy, and silent execution.
As the man slumps to the ground, a limp puppet with broken strings, Dick rips the pistol from his hand. He then rolls away, a blur of motion, finding cover behind a massive, marble display of a grotesque sculpture. The sounds of a dozen gunshots follow him, chipping away at the marble and tearing at the fabric of the display.
He is alone, outnumbered, and outmatched.
The museum is a symphony of violence, the sounds of gunfire echoing in the silent, cavernous space. Dick, his back pressed against the cold marble of a display, trades shots with the Court members. The air is thick with the smell of gunpowder and shattered glass.
He fires, the recoil of the pistol a familiar weight in his hand, and watches as a Court member stumbles back, a look of surprise on his face as he clutches his shoulder. He ducks back behind the display as a hail of bullets tears through the air, chipping away at the marble and tearing at the priceless art.
He is outnumbered, outmatched, and running out of time. But he's not a soldier. He's a hero. And he's going to fight. He peeks out from behind his cover, his eyes scanning the room, looking for an opening, a weakness, a way out.
Dick's pistol runs dry. He checks the magazine, a grim reality setting in-he's out of ammo. He tosses the useless weapon aside and bursts from behind the display, his movements a blur. He gets in close, his body a weapon, a storm of fists and feet.
He uses the close quarters to his advantage, his body a blur of motion as he dodges a knife, disarms a pistol, and uses the man's momentum against him. He is a blur of motion, a symphony of violence, a one-man army.
The museum is a graveyard of silent, broken bodies. The sounds of battle have faded, replaced by the ragged breathing of a man who has just fought for his life. Dick stands alone, a ghost in the machine, surrounded by the defeated bodies of the Court members.
He looks at them, his eyes a cold, hard gaze that promises nothing but violence. He has fought, and he has won. But the battle is not over.
Suddenly, a hand grabs his arm, a powerful, brutal grip that sends a shockwave of pain through his body. Vinny, his face a mask of furious desperation, throws him across the room. Dick flies through the air, his body a helpless puppet, and crashes against a marble statue. The statue, a priceless piece of art, shatters into a thousand pieces, the sound a deafening echo in the silent museum.
He lies on the ground, his body a mass of aches and pains, his mind reeling from the assault. He looks up at Vinny, who stands over him, his face a mask of cold, triumphant fury.
"You're not going anywhere, Grayson," he says, his voice a low, venomous growl. "Not until I get what I came for."
"And what's that?" Dick asks, his voice a low, raspy whisper. He pushes himself up, his body a mass of aches and pains, his mind a whirlwind of tactics and strategy.
Vinny's eyes burn with a cold, triumphant fury. He grabs Dick by the throat, his grip a vise of steel, lifting him off the ground. Dick's breath hitches, his face turning a sickly shade of red. He is a puppet with broken strings, helpless in the face of Vinny's brutal strength.
But Dick is not a man who gives up. He is a man who fights. With a last, desperate burst of strength, he reaches for one of his Talon knives, a small, sleek blade concealed in his boot. He brings it up, a flash of steel in the dim light, and plunges it into Vinny's arm.
Vinny lets out a howl of pain, his grip on Dick's throat loosening. Dick drops to the ground, gasping for air, his mind reeling. He looks at Vinny, who is clutching his bleeding arm, his face a mask of furious desperation.
Dick sees his chance. He lunges forward, a blur of motion, and lands a swift, brutal kick to Vinny's leg. The sound of the bone snapping is a sickening, brutal crack that echoes in the silent museum. Vinny screams, a raw, unhinged shriek of pain, and collapses to the ground, his body a broken, useless heap.
"I'm sorry about this, Vinny," Dick says, his voice a low, raspy whisper. He looks down at Vinny, who is writhing on the ground, his face a mask of pain and desperation. With a last, brutal kick to the head, Dick knocks him out, the sound a dull thud in the silent museum.
He grabs Vinny's pistol and heads up the stairs, his movements fluid and silent. He is a ghost in the machine, a predator on the hunt. He is so close. He is almost there.
Suddenly, a small, dark object sails through the air, and Sam's voice rings out, "Catch, Grayson!"
Dick ducks for cover behind a marble statue, the sound of the grenade's pin being pulled a terrifying, metallic whisper. The grenade lands in the middle of the room, a small, silent harbinger of death.
"If you have any respect for the Court, Dick, you would let this happen!" Sam shouts, his voice a raw, unhinged shriek.
"Fuck you, Sam!" Dick screams, his voice a raw, furious shriek. He is a man with a plan, a hero with a mission, and he is not going to let a grenade, a man who has betrayed him, and a woman who has betrayed them all, stop him.
Dick bursts from his cover, a blur of motion, and makes a mad dash for the top of the stairs. Sam, his face a mask of furious desperation, fires a shot that whizzes past Dick's head, the sound a low, angry hum.
Dick reaches the top of the stairs and fires back, the shot a loud, echoing crack in the silent museum. The bullet hits Sam in the side, and he stumbles back, clutching his wound.
"Lucky shot, Dick!" Sam shouts, a mixture of pain and frustration in his voice as he retreats to cover.
The museum is a symphony of silence and sound, the only sound the soft, rhythmic patter of footsteps on the marble floor. Dick, his pistol raised and ready, follows Sam's blood trail. He moves with a predatory grace, his body a coiled spring of tension, his mind a whirlwind of tactics and strategy.
He follows the trail of blood, a crimson map of Sam's movements, and it leads him to the exhibit on ancient Roman armor. Sam is there, hunched behind a display case, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
"Sam," Dick says, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. "It's over."
Sam looks up, his face a mask of pain and desperation. "It's not over, Dick," he says, his voice a low, defeated growl. "It's never over. Not for us. Not for the Court."
He pulls a small, silver knife from his pocket, a last, desperate act of defiance. But Dick is not a man who gives up. He is a man who fights. He raises his pistol, his eyes a cold, hard gaze that promises nothing but violence.
The quiet of the museum is shattered by the sound of gunshots. Dick fires a few shots into Sam's side, and he stumbles back, a look of surprise on his face as he collapses to the ground. He tries to crawl away, his body a broken, useless heap, a trail of blood in his wake.
Dick stands over him, his face a mask of cold, unrelenting resolve. "Nobody's carrying you to the doctor this time, Sam," he says, his voice a low, gravelly whisper.
Sam, his body a broken, useless heap, looks up at Dick, a grim, cynical smile on his face. He is a man who has lost, but he is not a man who will beg.
"You don't have to do this, Dick," he says, his voice a low, raspy whisper. "You can just disappear. Like Frank. But you'll be smart enough to stay gone, right?"
"What happened to him?" Dick asks, his voice a low, gravelly growl.
"Dumb bastard was hiding in Europe, but started betting on the horse track," Sam replies, a harsh, humorless laugh escaping his lips. "Got spotted by a friend of the Court. Evelyn sent out a hit."
"And his family?" Dick asks, his heart a cold, heavy stone in his chest.
Sam just shrugs, a dismissive, indifferent gesture. "Christ," Dick says, his voice a raw, unhinged shriek. He cocks his gun and aims it at Sam, his hand trembling, his mind a whirlwind of fury and disgust.
"You can't do it, can you?" Sam says, his voice a low, triumphant purr. "Always that voice in the back of your head, telling you not to pull that trigger. Maybe it's Batman. Or Barbara. And her unborn child."
Dick's head snaps up, his eyes wide with shock and disbelief. "How the fuck do you know that name?" he shouts, his voice a raw, furious shriek. "And what child?
Sam laughs, a dry, bitter sound that rattles in his chest. A grim, victorious smile spreads across his face, even as he bleeds out on the cold marble floor.
"Oh, she never told you?" he wheezes, his voice a low, mocking whisper. "She's been waiting for you to come home. So she can tell you herself. Barbara's been talking to us. Telling us all your little secrets. All your little plans."
Dick's hand tightens on the pistol, his mind reeling. He looks at Sam, then at the blood-soaked floor, then at the shattered art. He has been played. He has been lied to. He has been betrayed.
"Where is she?" Dick asks, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Where did you take her?"
Sam's smile widens into a cold, triumphant grin. "She's at the amusement park. The one you and your little friend like to play in. She's waiting for you, Grayson. She's waiting for you to come and save her."
Sam's eyes flutter, a slow, painful movement, and he takes a last, rattling breath. He closes his eyes and is gone. Dick stands over him, his body a silent, trembling mass of fury and despair. He is alone, surrounded by the ghosts of his past and the ghosts of his future. He knows where he has to go. He knows what he has to do. He has to save her. He has to save them both.